


Penitence

by soloproject



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, OT3, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soloproject/pseuds/soloproject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is trying to adjust to his new life. Ragnar and Lagertha are trying to understand him and all he does.</p><p>TW for self-harm. But I hope the comfort is worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penitence

Some days, Athelstan thinks, life on the Lothbrok’s farm is not too bad. Ragnar and Lagertha are kind to him and the children are tough but well-mannered enough for a group of heathens. Something akin to affection fills his chest when Gyda stubbornly points out herbs and roots and their uses to him or insists he help her at the loom.

Bjorn is sulky and moody as any half-grown man but he wilfully takes on farm tasks with uncharacteristic gravity and is patient enough with Athelstan while he struggles with the plow.

While it is light out, he tries to teach them to speak his language and in turn learns new words every day. Bjorn and Gyda laugh and laugh when they trick him to say bad words to Ragnar and Lagertha when they return from their business and his masters join the laughter, larger than life and full of bared teeth. 

Athelstan calls them his masters in his head—he doesn’t have many freedoms but at the same time, he isn’t sure why he doesn’t run away from the farm and into the forest. He is not shackled or bound and is trusted with the keys and the children. In his heart, he tries to call them his friends or his family but the pain of losing his brothers stays fresh. It is not always easy to fight resentment and it is not hard not to forgive.

_Love thy enemy._

Every day Athelstan prays, trying hard not to forget the psalters. He tries, in the name of the Lord, to keep to his prayers; on better days, he can manage to say them all but most days, he is too exhausted beyond all in both spirit and body and is lucky enough to say Vespers before they sit together to eat. 

Lagertha is suitably impressed with him but is less indulgent than Ragnar. Ragnar has no real use for slaves. Ragnar fights and he drinks and he presses Athelstan to do both, to take up a wooden sword and strike at him. Athelstan is no fighter but he cannot bring himself to say no to Ragnar and does so until the muscles in his arms grow lean and whiplike and it is not long until he can lift a bale of hay his size. Ragnar is an impressive man, of a size and stature much envied but possesses also boundless energy, asking a million questions of Athelstan, well into the night.

Ragnar demands answers for everything philosophical and religious, even as he mocks and gnashes his teeth over what’s lost in translation. He wants to know about warfare and engineering and government and Athelstan tries as hard as he can muster to entertain Ragnar even while fighting sleep.

When Ragnar is off on raids without Lagertha at his side, she in turn pesters him about brewing and baking and tidying and mending and whatever she can think of. She laughs and tells him how nice to have a man with the skills of a woman, if only her husband could be bothered to turn a goose on a spit, she would be well pleased. Lagertha flirts, cocks her hips and is unafraid of her body, unselfconsciously bathing in from of Athelstan while he closes his eyes and breathes. Like her husband, Lagertha speaks with her whole body, turning towards him, confident and challenging but they never touch. Lagertha keeps her distance, even as she teases and works alongside him. 

Ragnar returns from the summer raids to cheers, bringing treasure and slaves but brings back to the farm a scholar’s chest, throwing it at Athelstan’s feet and looking him in the eye for approval. Athelstan’s hands shake when he unrolls the scrolls, beautifully rendered, and spattered in blood. Athelstan chokes up as his fingers brush over the renderings of Thor and Odin and Frig. His own Bible is fading with how many times he has turned its pages.

That night he struggles with teaching Ragnar how to write the names of his gods and in the back of his mind, he begs forgiveness to his. 

 

One night, Athelstan brings in water from the well to the dinner table. He pours the ale for Ragnar and Bjorn and, yes, a little for Gyda now but when he turns to set the urn aside, he bumps into Lagertha, hair wet from washing before the meal. Her linen shift is thin and Athelstan can clearly see the silhouette of her body through the fabric. He turns away in a panic and the others laugh at the look on his face. Athelstan is quiet through dinner, despite Lagertha’s amused smirking. She reaches out and touches his wrist and Athelstan jumps like he’s been burned. Ragnar just throws his head back and laughs a great big bellyache before pressing kisses into Lagertha’s hair.

That night, Ragnar and Lagertha make love as Athelstan mutters his prayers. His hand slides down his stomach and palms his length through his robe. He hardly has his hand wrapped around his state when Lagertha shouts her ecstasy into the night and he comes suddenly, sticky and viscous, the physical embodiment of his sin. He wants to run to the edge of the water and walk into it until he drowns but instead he curls into a ball and sleeps. 

Athelstan wakes up at daybreak while the house is still asleep and peels himself from his mattress. He all but runs to the water and scrubs at his skin with sand. He cries out in agony before he looks down at the scratches he’s given himself all over his wrists. He pulls his shift up and over his head and dabs at them but the sting he feels is revelatory.

Athelstan looks around until he finds a flexible, slim branch that gives when he bends it. Muttering early morning prayers, he lashes himself, once, twice, feeling something unknot in his throat. 

It works.

By the time he returns to the house, Athelstan’s mind is clear. 

 

After the incident, Lagertha and Gyda are bolder. Athelstan doesn’t touch them but Gyda doesn’t hesitate to grab his sleeve and steer him in the right direction while they gather what they need in the woods. She whacks his hand when he misses a stitch at the loom and giggles when he rubs it, grinning back. 

But Gyda is a child and wholesome; Lagertha is a woman and not prone to coyness. When Athelstan trips, she grabs his arm and rights him, and then her fingers linger on his upper arm, sliding up to his shoulder to steady him. She has a grip as strong as a man’s but her hands are beautiful. She smiles at him with heat and then returns to the task at hand. Another time, they move in the kitchen in companionable silence before finding themselves inexorably wedged against each other trying to pass. Lagertha leans in with her hips while Athelstan tries to scramble past. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed. One night, while Athelstan is drilling the alphabet into Bjorn and Ragnar, the Viking leans into his space and whispers, “my wife, she is beautiful, isn’t she?” His mouth is warm and brushes against Athelstan’s ear while shivers run down his spine. Lagertha looks up from braiding Gyda’s hair and smiles at her men.

“She is,” Athelstan says, overcome. Ragnar laughs and his hand wanders up to dig into Athelstan’s hair, kneading at his scalp. His hair has grown back and it pains him to lose the last physical dregs of his monkhood. He prays and clings to his faith and he wears his cross around his neck but no one would be able to tell that he is a man of the cloth at first glance now. Athelstan needs something more. He needs affirmation.

At daybreak, he gathers himself and leaves the house while people are sleeping and heads into the woods. There is a clearing, beautiful and green, with just the right space overhead to allow God’s light to filter through. Athelstan has come here to pray before but this time he strips and folds his too-mended woolen robe reverently. He’s come a little way from the simple switch: Athelstan has fashioned a whip from a few strips of rope bound together with a bit of leather for a handle. The ends are dipped in tar and coated with gravel. 

Athelstan has seen ones covered in broken glass or pieces of metal. He has none of that, so this will have to do.

The first lash brings tears to his eyes but it is liberating. By the fifth or sixth lash, he’s finally drawn blood and he cries out in pain and exultation. Athelstan knows he cannot prolong this—the family will be waking up soon and they will be expecting him to be ready for them. He is.

Athelstan does not do it every day but when he does, he feels serene and peaceful. It does not go unnoticed—Ragnar shoots him curious looks over their chores and the children run and chase each other around the monk, who doesn’t even flinch when they run into or push him.

“You seem different today,” Ragnar comments. “Tell me, priest, has your God done something in your favor?”

Athelstan laughs and shakes his head. “I am grateful for to be alive and if I am good and remain steadfast in my faith, I, too, can go to Heaven. Our Christian Valhalla.” He tells Ragnar, who laughs.

 

That night Ragnar takes Lagertha to bed and their lovemaking is slow and heated. By now, Athelstan is used to this. He resigns himself to prayers and starts to turn over in his cot but he is pinned into his place before he can do so, by Ragnar’s icy blue stare, digging into his soul.

Lagertha rides her husband with slow deliberate movements but she follows her husband’s gaze and meets Athelstan’s eyes as well. They are beautiful together, a mighty ouroboros. Athelstan doesn’t turn away like all the other times. He stares openly, admiring the way they move together in such a way that he’s not sure where one of them begins and the other ends. 

Vikings are such passionate people. He’s seen Lagertha beat Ragnar when she’s displeased and Ragnar put a hand to Lagertha when she challenges him. They strike and kiss their children with equal fervor and pray and sing and eat and laugh with gusto. Everything they do, it seems, is bigger than they are.

Where Athelstan comes from, people suffer for the promise of eternal salvation. They absolve themselves from worldly desires in the name of Lord. Without the comfort of the monastery walls, the presence of his brothers, Athelstan questions. He questions and then he wallows in his guilt. The work helps and the whippings help.

_Why do the pious live in poverty while kings reign in excess and the churches are full of gold?_

Athelstan recalls the time Ragnar plied him with wine and asked for stories of England. Athelstan knew and thought if he only had lied, he could have saved so many people from death. But he cannot lie and so he can only rot on the inside, with guilt that’s unburdened by the feel of the whip against his skin.

_Why do the people starve for the slim chance to enter heaven?_

Ragnar’s people have gold and they eat and drink like there is no tomorrow. But at the same time, they are simple, having neither too much nor too little and there is not much that keeps them idle.

They are murderers and rapists, philanderers and gluttons. And yet Athelstan cannot bring himself to hate them. In a short time, Lagertha and Ragnar have made him a home.

“In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Athelstan breathes, staring at the beautiful line of Lagertha’s back as she sinks onto her husband, hands languidly running over Ragnar’s chest. 

“Husband,” she says, suddenly. “Our little priest needs some attention.” And just like that Ragnar moves, quick as a young lion and he is upon Athelstan, long lean body stretching over the monk’s slighter one. 

“No,” Athelstan whispers but his body already betrays him. He is hard against Ragnar’s thigh as the Viking noses through his hair and down his neck, hands digging into the monk’s robes. Athelstan panics, his body seizes. He doesn’t want Ragnar to strip him; his clothes are the last frontier against Ragnar’s gentle touching, his calloused hands.

Ragnar pauses and sits back just a little bit, waiting for Athelstan’s consent. And because he is weak, he nods and looks up at the ceiling, just as Ragnar wraps his giant hand around his hardening cock. It’s not long until he cries out in ecstasy. Athelstan doesn’t notice that Lagertha is suddenly there by his side, tilting his head up until his lips meet hers. Her breath is sweet with ale and herbs, her tongue is clever and Athelstan drinks her in. Ragnar’s hands pet him through the aftershocks, running over his thighs. By some miracle, he is still clothed. 

Athelstan thanks God when Lagertha and Ragnar leave for town early for a Thing at the Earl’s longhouse. His hands shake while he obsessively scrubs the floors and puts everything in order. The children sense his anxiety and give him a wide berth and Athelstan is sorry, apologizes to them in his head and asks their forgiveness. 

His penitence comes later and it comes hard and fast. He draws blood this time and the color is both a shock and a comfort.

 

It’s not the last time he sees blood. Two days later, bandits enter the farm compound. Ragnar and Lagertha are still away and will be for a few more hours. 

“Athelstan! Athelstan!” Gyda shouts, tearing through the farm. Even from far away, he can see Bjorn’s back to the door, sword in hand. The other peasants are rushing over, a motley crew armed with hoes or spears. 

There aren’t many bandits, three or four from what Athelstan can see but they are armed and they look desperate. Lagertha had warned him that this happens on occasion and they are easily run off but without Ragnar or Lagertha or even Rollo around, they err on the weak side. 

Gyda grabs his hand and pulls him to the side of the hut. She pulls out a wooden shield, simple, unlike the one Lagertha wields but she holds it with a practiced hand. She pulls out a dagger from her boot and wraps Athelstan’s hand around the hilt. Panic crawls up his throat but Gyda squeezes his hand tight, her normally sweet face screwed into a look of ferocity. From a distance, Bjorn is hollering and there are sounds of a battle being waged.

Gyda draws in a sharp breath and Athelstan turns, knife in hand to see a boy sneering at them. He is dressed poorly, in rags and his teeth are rotten. The prayers fall from Athelstan’s lips as he tries to shield Gyda with his body. Gyda is restless at his side, banging her spear against the surface of the shield and shouting threats. The boy-bandit laughs and makes threatening moves. He pulls a rusty blade from under his clothes and bears down on him.

Gyda fights, a girl turning into a lioness. The boy is too hungry and lost—he is no real match for Gyda who manages to hit him a few times with the end of her spear. He lashes out anyway, swinging his blade as best as he can. Gyda ducks and knocks into Athelstan, who falls back and scrambles away, calling for the girl to run away.

In another life, Athelstan would reach out, feed him, clothe him, council him. The word of God would compel him to be compassionate and yes, Athelstan feels nothing but pity and compassion for this lost boy. He himself is scared. 

Bjorn comes running around the corner. With a cry, he leaps and throws his weight against the boy just as Gyda jumps out of his way. 

Athelstan reacts as the boy falls on top of him but in one hazy second, he forgets he is holding the knife and gets a face full of filthy, stinking, _alive_ boy for a fleeting moment before the spark in his eyes fades away. They are frozen like that, the boy growing limp on top of Athelstan as he stares into the sky. He can feel the blood soaking through the front of his shift.  


Bjorn and Gyda rush over and Bjorn heaves the body off of him. Gyda’s hands are gentle again and pry the knife out of his hands as Bjorn scoffs and kicks at the dead body. This small event has lit a fire in the blood of the son of Ragnar and he paces between the corpse and his sister and the slave, restless. 

When the tears fall from Athelstan’s eyes, Bjorn spits on the ground next to him and stalks off. Gyda sits, kneeling at his side, holding his blood-soaked hand.

 

It feels like an age before Athelstan is able to sit up, despite the fact that it’s only been a few minutes. He knows because the blood on his shift is still wet and his hands haven’t stopped shaking. Gyda gets up and shoves him towards a water barrel and Athelstan scoops water over his head and his face. He cannot stop the tears from falling.

With a start he pushes past Gyda and runs into the forest, to the clearing.

 

Ragnar and Lagertha arrive sometime later to a chastened household. Their neighbors hover around the perimeter of their home and relay the news quickly. At first Ragnar grins when they tell him how his children have acted but it fades into something more inquisitive when they tell him that the slave has killed a man on his own. He shoots a glance at Lagertha and they rush around the house and past the field, to the edge of the wood. 

Bjorn inclines his head as he sees his parents, while he burns the bodies of the would-be thieves. He tilts his head towards the edge of the forest, scowling as he suffers the affections of his mother.

Lagertha kisses him before joining her daughter. Gyda paces the edge of the forest but she lights up when her parents approach.  


“What happened?” Ragnar asks, hugging his daughter to his chest. He is swollen with pride for how Bjorn and Gyda have handled themselves. 

“Bandits,” Bjorn says, spitefully. “They were weak. They tried to take food, gold. We held them off, it wasn’t difficult.”

“And you, my darling?” Lagertha asks her daughter.

“Just a boy,” Gyda says. She was never one for speaking much. Bjorn rolls his eyes and speaks for her. 

“Gyda defended well. She used the shield just like you showed her, mother. She gave the dagger to the priest and he tried to protect her but he is too scared. They are weak, like you say, Father, these foreigners. Anyway, I came to help. I pushed the boy onto the priest. He fell on the knife. He died.” Bjorn said. 

“And am I to believe that the priest was holding the knife at the time?” Lagertha asked. Bjorn nods curtly.

“So, our little priest has killed a man.”

“He got lucky,” Bjorn shrugged.

Lagertha laughed. “I doubt he would feel that way, my husband.” Ragnar smiles at her but his eyes stray into towards the forest.  


“Gyda, he has gone in there?” Ragnar asks. 

Gyda nods and follows her mother into the house, eager for stories of the Thing and of Kattegat. Ragnar watches his family return to their hearth before turning to the forest.

 

 _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._

Athelstan kneels in his clearing, staring up at the full moon from where it barely peeks through the trees. 

_I have taken the life of another man._

He’s naked, having stripped himself of his bloody tunic and shift, kneeling in a pool of fabric. The moonlight bears down on him, bathing him in a bright light. Most nights the light of the moon is comforting to Athelstan because he knows that it is the same moon that shines down on his people. But tonight it looks like a gigantic eye, chastising him. 

The weight of his guilt is almost too much to bear. Athelstan feels trapped. There is no one to run to for counsel on his sins, no one to show him the way. If he lives, he lives knowing he has slipped that much further towards the gates of Hell. If he takes his own life, he will never enter Heaven.

_What do I do? His blood is on my hands. ___

__The first lash dries his tears. The second clears his mind. After ten, Athelstan can’t stop. Every spike of pain is a heavy step towards redemption and they punctuate the prayers he recites every prayer he knows. Some he writes on the spot.  
__

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Deliver us from evil._

__That’s how Ragnar finds him, kneeling and looking up at the sky, back a raw and bloody mess. He pauses for a moment to drink it in, the sight of Athelstan covered in blood but alive._ _

__“Priest,” he says. His voice is unintentionally gentle. Ragnar goes to him and pries the whip from his hands and tosses it aside. Athelstan turns to meet his eyes but his gaze seems to go right through Ragnar. Ragnar takes his head between his hands and shakes him a little._ _

__“Priest. Priest.” Ragnar slaps at Athelstan’s face and sees the awareness inch back into the monk’s face. His eyes are raw from crying. Ragnar cannot begin to understand what is going on in Athelstan’s mind but he knows the look of a guilty man. “Athelstan,” Ragnar tries, the name falling from his tongue easily._ _

__“I killed a man,” Athelstan mumbles, looking pale and faint. “Forgive me, Father, every day I live here I draw farther away from you.” He says in his own language. Ragnar has bullied enough lessons out of him to understand the words though the meaning is lost to him. He shakes his head at Athelstan’s state._ _

__“You defended my land and my children. It is more than what we expect of you.” Ragnar says, simply. Athelstan looks at him with wonder and sadness. It tears at Ragnar a little, how attached they have all become of their little priest._ _

__“I wanted to run,” Athelstan admits._ _

__“It would not be unexpected. We have taken you against your will, you’re right. I have killed your brothers. You owe me nothing. So why do you stay?”_ _

__The question seems to fortify Athelstan a little bit. “I…I had hoped that I could save you. Your eternal souls.”_ _

__Ragnar smiles at him. “And now, you have.” He gathers Athelstan close, pulling the monk into his chest. He will bring him home to Lagertha, explain to her how best he understands and then Ragnar will let Athelstan decide his place with them. He doesn’t know why but Athelstan is more than a slave or an unwilling spy—the gods have done nothing but smile on his fortune since he impulsively picked the monk as his prize._ _

__Ragnar heaves Athelstan over his shoulder as carefully as he can, given the state of his back. And then he brings him home._ _

__

__His wounded back attracts fever. Athelstan is in bed for days. It starts slow, just an ache in his bones but at night he shakes with the cold. When Ragnar brought Athelstan home, Lagertha had clucked her tongue and set to work, sending Bjorn to fetch water and Gyda to build the fire. She made a quick poultice for his back and sat with him all night as he slept._ _

__But now Athelstan’s fever rages. He cries out during the day and shivers through the night. The children keep the fires built and Lagertha forces soups and herbal teas laced with alcohol down his throat. Ragnar covers him in furs._ _

__It takes six days for his fever to break and the house is quiet with no one watching when Athelstan wakes. He tries to sit up but the fur is too heavy in his weakened state so he lays there and sweats, breathing carefully. Lagertha is the first to wake, as always and she feeds the fire until it comes alive._ _

__“Lagertha,” Athelstan croaks and she turns and smiles at him, wiping her hands off with a rag as she comes to sit by his bedside._ _

__“Priest. You are alive,” Lagertha says, smiling gently._ _

__“Thank you,” Athelstan smiles and takes his hand out, reaching for hers. Lagertha looks surprised but she recovers fast, wrapping her long fingers around his. “Thank you…and I am sorry.”_ _

__“You protected my children, priest. That is a debt I must repay before I can enter Valhalla.” Lagertha replies, softly._ _

__“Bjorn would say otherwise,” Athelstan says, weakly._ _

__“Athelstan! You are awake,” Ragnar says, coming to join his wife. He raises an eyebrow at their clasped hands but he sits by them, nonetheless. He is naked and wonderfully unaware of it._ _

__Lagertha tosses a blanket at him and he wraps it around his body to ward off the early morning chill, at least. “Can you get up?” Lagertha asks Athelstan, who nods. Ragnar tosses the furs off him and onto the floor, taking Athelstan by his arm and heaving him to his feet, none too gently. Athelstan’s torso is wrapped in linen bandages but is now a dull soreness rather than the sharp pain._ _

__The fever has changed something in Athelstan and he feels weak and shaky but clearheaded. Ragnar walks ahead of him towards the shoreline as Athelstan drags his feet behind him. Lagertha follows, carrying another blanket which she wraps around Athelstan’s shoulders when she reaches them._ _

__They stand in silence together for a long moment before Lagertha speaks._ _

__“I do not care so much for news of other worlds, unlike my husband here; nor customs of your land. But it disturbs me to see you inflict pain on yourself. Is this normal of your people?”_ _

__Lagertha has never asked Athelstan about his people and something in him hesitates. Even though it is Ragnar he obeys and turns to and craves attention, it is Lagertha he wants to please and seeks approval from. She, more than her husband, sought to treat him more like a slave or a plaything, teasing him or giving him orders but she is kind and fair to him and he wants to her to understand._ _

__“Our god sent his only son to live among humans so we could learn from him and when it was time for him to be called back, we persecuted him and tormented him…this suffering he bore out of love for us and so he died for our sins.”_ _

__“He did not fight back? He seems a foolish man,” Lagertha scoffs, though not unkindly. She helps Athelstan sit._ _

__“No, no, Jesus wasn’t foolish. There was no reason to fight back. Their hate was born of spite and fighting back would show he was capable of spite. Jesus was the son of God and son of man…he is above small feelings of petty revenge and spite. He died to show he loved us.” Athelstan’s voice grows stronger as he tells the story but it ends in a cough._ _

__“More tales after more rest,” Ragnar announces and herds them all inside._ _

__

__A month passes by before Athelstan even thinks about the whip. He forgoes the thought._ _

__

__By this time, Athelstan feels very nearly one of them, although he attacks his prayers and reads his book with a fervor that surprises himself. His tonsure is gone and when his hair grows too long, Gyda braids it into something more manageable._ _

__Ragnar laughs at him but he likes it too, pulling Athelstan close to him by the back of his head. Athelstan is comfortable enough now to push back at him but his smiles are still shy. Ragnar and Lagertha think he is beautiful like this, with a stronger constitution and a braver air but they sit patiently while he bends his head over his meal and prays under his breath. They don’t protest when he walks towards the shore or into the woods to pray.__

_Father, I know you are there and listening. I pray you have not left my side despite my sins._

__Most nights, he sleeps in his own bed. But some nights, he allows himself to be pulled into Ragnar and Lagertha’s, whose sides are warm and welcoming. For Athelstan who has never known a family before the brotherhood, this is his family now._ _

__“I pray your God is watching,” Lagertha says, stretching out languidly among the blankets. Athelstan lies on his back, spent, waiting for Ragnar to return after going to relieve himself outside._ _

__“He is always watching,” Athelstan affirms. But in his heart, he is defiant. His God, after all, is also the God of his king in England, of his soldiers and of his people, who fight and kill and die every day. He cannot call himself a monk after all of this but he is still a good Christian, or so he hopes._ _

__Lagertha rolls over on top of him, eager to touch his body and Athelstan looks up into her eyes, her long blonde hair and feels himself grow hard against her thighs. He has never before felt in his body what Ragnar and Lagertha make him feel but the pleasure feels more like triumph rather than shame, as he was once taught to feel. She glides on top of him and rocks her wet heat against his hardening length and Ragnar grins as he returns to bed._ _

__Ragnar’s eye sparkle with mischief as he watches Athelstan over his wife’s shoulder, pressing kisses into her skin as she moves against them. His massive hand reaches around to grasp at Athelstan as Ragnar enters Lagertha from behind and swallows her cries. Athelstan’s hands grab at Lagertha’s arms and he closes his eyes as Ragnar’s strokes become more frantic and his hips buck into two people he loves. He is in love with both of them, despite the lingering guilt in his gut, despite the burning doubt in his mind. He cannot denounce two such beautiful people who had every right to beat him or mock him. Instead, they come together, a warm heavy weight collapsing on Athelstan. Lagertha presses a kiss to his forehead as she curls around his body and Ragnar surrounds them both as always. Athelstan feels safe. He is happy._ _

__They fall asleep like this._ _

__\- END -_ _

**Author's Note:**

> My first Vikings fic! Thank you for reading! I beta'd it very poorly at nearly 2 AM so sorry for mistakes, all mine.
> 
> I apologize for any liberties taken here and for any assumptions about Viking history and culture.


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